He shakes his head slowly, like he’s trying to shake a thought loose and failing. Like it’s lodged somewhere too deep to be dislodged easily.
“You don’t understand, princess,” he says.
And it’s not the words that undo me—it’s his voice. The way it wavers, just barely, like a crack running through glass. He’s trying so hard to sound steady, to sound like the Dhruv who always knows what to do, but I hear it anyway. That tiny tremor. That fear.
It scares me.
That’s when something inside me gives way.
Not anger. Not panic.
Something firmer. Quieter. Resolve.
I let out a breath that escapes me half as a laugh, half as a sob, and step closer before he can move again. Before he can retreat into that distance he keeps choosing. Before he can vanish from right in front of me.
“What would you do, Dhruv,” I ask, my voice shaking but determined enough to meet his eyes, “if I changed for the worse?”
His brows draw together instantly, confusion flashing across his face, but I don’t pause. If I stop now, I’ll lose the courage it took to open this wound.
“What if I start hating you?” I continue, the words tumbling out rough and raw. “Raising my voice, throwing things, saying things I don’t mean?”
My throat tightens, the familiar burn settling in, but I force myself to keep speaking.
“What if I wake up one day,” I whisper, my chest aching, “and I’m not this version of me anymore?”
I search his face as I say it, every line of him, every breath he takes, because this is the part of myself I don’t show easily. The part that’s terrified of being unlovable when I’m no longer careful, no longer contained.
And I need him to hear it.
All of it. His lips part, but I keep going, because I need him to hear this. Really hear it.
“Would you leave me then?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence between us feels heavy, charged.
“You might,” I continue softly. “If I asked for space, you’d give it to me. Without making me feel guilty. Without holding it over my head. That’s how thoughtful you are. How understanding.”
My eyes burn, but I don’t look away.
“But if I needed you, Dhruv… really needed you,” I whisper, “would you leave me?”
His chest rises sharply, like the question physically hits him.
“That’s because I love you, Sitara,” he whispers.
The words don’t just reach my ears. They settle deeper than that, lodging themselves somewhere beneath my ribs, heavy and warm all at once. His voice is unsteady, like he’s stripped of every layer of control he wears so effortlessly, and hearing it like this makes my chest ache in a way I don’t know how to describe.
“I love you more than my life,” he continues, and this time there’s no armor left in his tone. It’s raw, almost bare. “Anything I do for you—it doesn’t feel forced. It never has. Loving you feels… instinctive. Like breathing, princess.”
My lungs forget what they’re supposed to do. I inhale too shallowly, too fast, like my body is struggling to keep up with what my heart is doing. His words are not dramatic or rehearsed. They’re simple. Certain. And that certainty terrifies me as much as it steadies me.
“I love you,” he says again, softer now, closer, as if the words are meant only for me. “And I will endure anything for you. With you—”
“With me,” I cut in quickly, because I hear where he’s going, and I refuse to let him shoulder it alone. My voice trembles, but I don’t look away. “With me.”
Then the truth spills out before I can stop it. “I love you too, Dhruv.”
The words don’t sound graceful. They come out uneven, tangled with emotion, thick with tears I didn’t realize were already falling. My lips curve into a small, broken smile anyway, because despite everything, despite the fear and the chaos, this is the most honest thing I’ve ever said.
